Yevtushenko grew even more boisterous, his companions more silent. He started to prowl around the restaurant bellowing verse. He stopped at our table. ‘Give me more cigarette,’ he demanded. He was given a second fag. ‘I smoke it, I chew it, I destroy it’. He proclaimed. The next day an article about the dangers of alcoholism appeared in Pravda – written by Yevtushenko. Christopher and I laughed long and hard on hearing this.
Throughout our stay we were privileged visitors and travelled everywhere in private hire cars. Craig Raine said, ‘God I feel guilty sitting in this limo, don’t you?’ Alan Bennett said, ‘Yes, but it’s swiftly erased.’
The cars enabled us to get around easily. We visited the private market where Anne and I were each presented with a single red carnation by a handsome Georgian market trader. We spent a morning in an art gallery where two Matisses, ‘The Painter’s Studio’ and ‘Still Life with Goldfish’, hung on the walls radiating brilliance and simplicity. More sombre but resounding with humanity was Van Gogh’s ‘Prisoners at Exercise’. Outside the gallery a huge queue had formed of people wishing to buy tickets for the forthcoming Salvador Dali exhibition. Passing by was a clichéd homosexual with permed hair, hand on hip and a defiant expression on his hunter’s face.
The cars delivered us to the cemetery where the great and good Chekhov is buried. Galina asked the man guarding the gate if we could enter. ‘No,’ he said.
‘But I have six British writers here,’ she protested.
‘So what?’ he replied. ‘I am a reader. They can’t come in.’
We admired the man’s comic timing but after we had stopped laughing we were infuriated by his jobsworth attitude – reminiscent of British Rail staff at Brighton Station. We could only gaze through the bars and reflect that Chekhov would have enjoyed the joke. We passed Melvyn Bragg, who was working as a doorman at the Ukraine Hotel, and left to catch an overnight train to Orel in Central Russia. Orel was the home of many important writers – albeit briefly – most of them hot-footed it to Moscow as soon as they were published. We were met by representatives of the Soviet Writers’ Union, and driven to the Shipka Motel which was set amongst birch woods. After breakfast we toured the town. Our guide wore pop socks and Minnie Mouse court shoes and eagerly pointed out the confluence of the two rivers, the war memorial, etc., but we were tired after our roistering on the train the night before and it was difficult to concentrate. Orel was occupied and then completely destroyed by the German army. It is now pleasant and wooded and a place where people come to rest and recuperate. However, there was to be no rest for me in Orel. Paul Bailey – who enjoys a spot of kindly mischief making – described me as ‘une femme louche’ to the writers of Orel; from then on I was pursued. ‘Sue’, ‘Sue’ was groaned in my ear at frequent intervals by a Siberian playwright. A small humpbacked poet was constantly wisecracking at my elbow. My suitors and I conversed in appalling French. ‘Merci’, I said over and over again as more presents appeared. The small poet had demonic powers. On a visit to the Turgenev estate – an enchanting place where the ground is covered in wild flowers and there is a lake with two rotting Billy Goat Gruff bridges – I was led towards the woods by him and two more swains, one of whom had a bottle of wine concealed in his briefcase. Only the pop-socked guide prevented a fate worse than watching Rolf Harris in concert. My silent appeals for help had been ignored by my crouching, laughing compatriots.
A rock band played as we ate dinner in the Shipka, people danced, there was a quarrel over a woman, a near fight. Melvyn Bragg was playing the guitar in an apathetic fashion. A sulky blonde glamorous girl sang. Then at nine o’clock everything closed down, so we went to my room and performed Private Lives on the balcony and got bitten by mosquitoes and drank cheap champagne. Craig Raine laughed loudly until the early hours, and kept Timothy Mo awake.
The gods punished Paul Bailey; he had a bad reaction to the mosquitoes and was ill for four days. I was very sorry for him as I had grown to like him enormously.
We retreated back to Moscow. We arrived at 6.30 in the morning. Even at this early hour Russia was on the move; the station was jam-packed full. We passed through a massive waiting room where every plastic chair was occupied, yet nobody spoke. Christopher Hope was much affected by this. It was in complete contrast to the milling, shouting crowds outside with their ungainly luggage and wool-wrapped children in tow. There was one policeman at the door – could he alone have cowed hundreds of people into complete silence?
We went to the Bolshoi and saw the most exquisite dying swan, performed by Ms Larissa, the toast of Moscow, who was reputed to be rushing towards sixty years of age. Her arms vibrated like piano wires, they shimmered, then as the violins soared and swooned she sank to the floor in the final gesture – it was perfect and lovely and I shall always remember it.
I arranged to meet my translator, but he mixed up Tuesday with Thursday so it was not possible. He is translating a diary. As Mr Bennett said, ‘Friday: Got up, went to Sunday school.’
We were invited to Kim Philby’s funeral and said we’d go, but the day was changed and we’d flown to Lvov in the Ukraine. We met more writers and admired the beautiful town and visited the cathedral which was crowded with old women, many on their knees. The sadness was tangible. It was Ascension Day and a kindly old woman began to explain the story of the Ascension to Alan Bennett.
Alan listened as though the story were completely new to him. Then an unkind old woman intervened and ordered him to uncross his legs. She then turned on the kind old woman and berated her for talking to us. Later, strolling round the town, we saw the unkind woman praying at the locked gates of a church. She looked very unhappy. We met the mayor of Lvov, a big, handsome man, very conscious of his duty to preserve and renovate the many lovely buildings with which the town is blessed. Alan Bennett is thinking of retiring to Lvov. We met a dirty, ragged man who told us about the concentration camp which used to be situated to the west of the town. Hundreds of thousands of people died there. I asked our official guide about the old man. ‘He is a fanatic,’ she said. ‘He has spent his life since the war studying the fate of the Jews. He is a Jew himself,’ she added, ‘a professor of history.’ She disapproved of the ragged old man.
The writers of Lvov were particularly kind and hospitable, and we lunched in some style to the sounds of a string quartet – all girls who blushed when we applauded. The conversation at Messrs Raine, Bennett and Bailey’s end of the table had turned to sex. Their laughter attracted the attention of the wife of the chairman of the Lvov Writers’ Union. I said, ‘They are talking about sex.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘All say’s, little do’s.’
Quite a devastating remark from such a mild-looking woman.
On the flight back Timothy Mo reproduced the sound of the aircraft emergency signal in Mr Bennett’s ear. Mr Bennett was already in a lather because a woman sitting in front of him had tried to pull down the emergency exit lever, in order to hang her cardigan on this convenient peg. After such provocation Mr Bennett turned to Mr Mo and said, ‘Oh —— off back to Hong Kong, you slant-eyed git!’ Mr Mo laughed immoderately; he can give it out and take it back. Mr Mo won’t like me saying this, but he is a very kind man. Mr Raine, master of erotic verse, longed for his family in England. Mr Bailey, comedian manqué, missed his dog. Mr Bennett dismissed his label of genius and wished he could dance, and Mr Hope gravely observed the tragi-comedy of Russia and made plans to return. Anne Vaughan and her terrific husband Andy (a dab at changing film in cameras) were returning to the trauma of house-moving.
I fell in love with all five of my companions at different times and for different reasons. I hope that they will understand better than anybody that this attenuated account of our Russian trip is biased, inaccurate and is only my version of the truth. There are five other versions and I look forward to reading them almost as much as I look forward to returning to Russia.
Why I Like England
I like living in England because everywhere e
lse is foreign and strange. The only language I speak is English: I dropped French at school and took up hurdling with the athletic team instead. Even now, in later years, my instinctive reaction on hearing French is to jerk one leg in the air and propel myself towards low garden walls. But I wouldn’t like anyone to think that I don’t like Abroad. I do. Abroad means adventure and the possibility of danger and delicious food, but Abroad is also tiring and confusing and full of foreigners who tell you that the bank is open when it’s not.
Being an atheist I am naturally interested in English churches, and being a town dweller I passionately love the English countryside. Though I will concede that ‘it looks better on the telly than it does in real life’, as a child new to the countryside said to me once on a Social Service outing.
I only fully appreciated the varied nature of the English countryside after driving for two days through a Swedish pine forest. By the morning of the second day, desperate for novelty, I started counting the dead reindeer that littered the verges. By the afternoon I’d stopped feeling sorry for the reindeer, and by late evening I’d also stopped feeling guilty about owning two pine dressers. In fact my first thought on seeing the oak dressers appearing in Habitat’s window was that Terence Conran must have been to Sweden on a motoring holiday, and on returning to England had issued a terse memo: ‘Pine is out, oak is in!’
I like English weather; like the countryside it’s constantly drawing attention to itself. I started this article in a room filled with piercing sunlight, but now a strong wind has materialized and the room is full of gloom.
I like the reserve of English people, because I don’t particularly want to talk to strangers in trains either, unless of course there is a crisis such as a ‘cow on the line’ causing an hour’s delay. In which case my fellow passengers and I will happily spill out our life stories to anybody we can get to listen.
I like the way in which the English cope with disasters: cut our water off and we will cheerfully queue at a stand pipe in the snow. Throw us into rat-infested foreign jails and we will emerge blinking in the daylight to claim that our brutal-looking jailers were ‘decent sorts who treated us well’. I bet somewhere, pinned onto a filthy prison wall, is a Christmas card; ‘To my friend and captor, Pedro, from Jim Wilkinson of cell 14.’
The England I love best is, of course, the England of childhood; when children could play in the street without the neighbours getting up a petition. When children lisp, ‘Tell us about the olden days’, I romanticize about the fields and hedgerows, and about the time when a car coming down the unadopted road brought us out of our prefabs to gawp and speculate. I’m happy to live in a country that produces important things: wonderful plays, books, literature, heart surgeons, gardeners and Private Eye. I was asked to write about why I like England in 700 words. Now if I’d been asked to write about why I don’t like England I’d have needed 1,000, and I suspect it would have been easier to write. It’s our birthright and privilege to criticize our own country and shout for revolution. I asked a friend of mine where, given the choice and enough money, he would choose to live. He replied gloomily, ‘There isn’t anywhere else.’ Another friend when asked if she’d ever go on a world cruise said, ‘No, I’d rather go somewhere nice.’
Given the choice between death and exile I’d choose exile every time, but I’d be very, very unhappy at having to leave the club.
Margaret Hilda Roberts
The Secret Diary of Margaret Hilda Roberts Aged 14¼
Friday May 6th
Father has cleverly seen a gap in the lavatory paper market; illiterate households don’t buy newspapers, so father is selling ready-strung bundles at a penny farthing each. The first consignment went on sale at 8am and was sold out by 12.30pm. Mrs Arkwright bought six bundles explaining: ‘My little ’uns ’as all got the runs through the ’oles in their boots.’
A traveller from London called in for an ounce of shag and passed on a rumour he had heard that a future socialist government would introduce free milk to schools. Father went the colour of barley and had to sit down. When he recovered he said to me: ‘The socialists are out to ruin the small shopkeeper, Margaret.’ I said: ‘But Father, you’ll be all right, you are over six feet tall.’ The traveller and father laughed, I don’t know why. If the filthy socialists ever do take power I shall refuse to drink free school milk. If the poor cannot afford to buy it then they must go without.
Saturday May 7th
Angela Pork-Cracklin had sent a message to the shop asking if I would make up a four in the mixed doubles to be held this evening on her parents’ court. Father was delighted (he has been after the Pork-Cracklins’ Earl Grey order for years). I told Father that I didn’t know how to play tennis. But he took his apron off and ran to the library, returning with Fundamentals of Lawn Tennis. Mother was told to run a tennis dress up on the Singer and, between customers, father and I practised a few strokes using biscuit tins as racquets and stale rock cakes as balls. By four o’clock I had perfected serving to the base line (the bacon slicer) and was working on my back hand, when Mother brought my tennis dress in to be fitted. She spoilt everything by shouting, ‘Just look at all this ’ere mess. There’s crumbs and currants all over my clean shop floor.’ Father remained calm. He simply sent Mother into the back room to whiten my plimsolls. By six o’clock I had memorized the rules of lawn tennis, and by 7.30 I had beaten Angela Pork-Cracklin six-love six-love. Angela ran into the big house and refused to come out for mixed doubles so they were abandoned and I lost my chance to bring up the subject of the Earl Grey order.
Father was tearing newspaper into squares when I arrived home. We sat and discussed my triumph. Mother joined us while she unpicked the tennis dress for dusters. Thus the time before bed was spent very pleasantly.
Sunday May 8th
Up at 5am. Did two hours of delicious mathematical equations then woke Mother and ordered her to prepare breakfast. Honestly, she is such a slug-a-bed. She would stay in bed until 7.30am if I let her!
Chapel and Sunday school in the morning, then dinner (lunch, Margaret, lunch!) followed by afternoon Sunday school, high tea and evening chapel. An ordinary Sunday except for an extraordinary incident when Mother was caught red-handed breaking the Sabbath. Yes, at four o’clock I walked into the back room and saw Mother cleaning her shoes. I called Father at once and he came downstairs and witnessed Mother with the Cherry Blossom in one hand and the polish rag in the other. She begged forgiveness but Father was not to be swayed and he forbade her to accompany us to evening chapel. Her absence is sure to cause tongues to wag amongst the congregation but rules are rules and are meant to be kept. All else is anarchy.
Monday May 9th
Hurrah! Another week of school begins. There is a new girl in our class. Her name is Edwina Slurry. She is obviously ambitious, but she’ll have to work jolly hard to knock me from my position at the top of the class. I have asked Mother if I can stop wearing a Liberty bodice. The buttons are an awful nuisance when one is dressing after games. She is going to confer with father and let me know.
Tuesday May 10th
I have been to see the head to ask if I can be excused from Art. All that messing about with paint and paper is a sheer waste of time, especially when I could be working. Miss Fossdyke said: ‘Margaret, the function of Art is to develop the sensibilities, and you of all the girls in my school need to do this as a matter of urgency.’ I can’t think what she meant by her remarks as I am easily the most sensible girl in the school.
Wednesday May 11th
Edwina Slurry has been toadying to a disgusting degree. Some of the more impressionable girls have taken to walking arm-in-arm in the corridors with her.
Lady Olga Wasteland lectured the whole school this afternoon. Her subject was ‘The Horrors of War’. She related how horrified she was when she realized that fully fashioned nylons were no longer in the shops.
Thursday May 12th
Methodist Youth Club was spoiled by a fight involving the Pri
or gang and Cecil Parkhurst’s friends. The tea urn was knocked over and the sugar bowl was broken. I think it is time the Prior gang was banned. They have caused nothing but trouble since they became members. Cecil behaved like the gentleman he is by escorting me out of the hall and seeing that Prior and his bully boys did not bother me.
Was rather upset when I got into bed so I indulged myself in reading my favourite page from Higher Mathematics Book Four. The problem ‘XXYYZZ = ZZYYZZ, discuss’ never fails to make me laugh out loud. However, life can’t be all pleasure so I put out the light, repeated ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain’ two hundred times and went to sleep.
Friday May 13th
Dearest diary, without Cecil my life has no meaning, no direction. How I miss him. O Cecil! If only a way could be found to slot you back into decent Grantham society. Meeting illicitly over your weekly Brylcreem order isn’t enough for me. Why will no one tell me your crime? What was it exactly you did? Must finish now as it is midnight and father and I are about to do the stocktaking. Mother has already slunk off to bed with a cup of Ovaltine. She is only working a sixteen-hour day. She is not pulling her weight. I will speak to father tonight.
3am. Just back from the woods where Cecil is hiding. I gave him his Brylcreem and was rewarded by a limp handshake; at least I think it was his hand I was shaking; it was too dark to see properly.
Saturday May 14th
I am in disgrace. Father has found out about the missing jars of Brylcreem. How foolish I was to think he wouldn’t notice. In his rage father accused me of having an affair with Arnold Arkwright, who plasters the stuff on his hair with a trowel. I was in the middle of counting the hundreds and thousands cake decorations, and was so upset by father’s unjust accusation that I lost count and had to start again. It was 5am before I got to bed.